(Victory Tour vs. Brazil, 10/25/15) PHOTOCRED: @home–town !!!!!

“Alright,” Bones says, sitting up. He’d been tilting his head back against the cool stone wall, trying to think. “I have an idea. But you’re not going to like it.”

“I am open to any suggestion that involves my continued survival, Doctor.” Beside him, Spock looks like he’s trying to move as little as possible to avoid another spasm of pain radiating from the wound in his side.

“Okay, but just remember you said that,” he tells Spock, readjusting so he’s facing the Vulcan. “Here’s the thing. Vulcans inherently have… a shit ton of feelings. Big, bad, ugly. Stop me if I’m wrong.” Spock doesn’t stop him. “But you repress it all. You, your people, you’ve learned to lock it down. Which, contrary to some not-so-nice things I might’ve said in the past, is fine. That’s fine. But you can’t really repress pain in the same way.”

“I feel fine,” Spock assures him.

McCoy rolls his eyes and lets out a huff of air. “Jesus, you’re a worse liar than Jim. Look, my point is— you’ve got that Vulcan intense pain but you don’t have the Vulcan intense emotions to ward it off. You’re, you’re shoving that down, but the thing is you need it or you’re gonna pass out from the pain, Spock.”

He blinks. “How do you suggest I fix that?” He sounds bored— or possibly just irritated at being told repeatedly how much pain he’s in. He knows.

“Endorphins,” McCoy says. “Endorphins, oxytocin… there’s a whole lot of chemicals you could really use right about now but your pointy-eared body isn’t producing them.”

“And how do you suggest I fix—” But Bones is already kissing him.

Their lips meld together, moving just slightly, apart and then back, and then back. Spock just seems shocked at first, and then he responds, slowly, the tip of his tongue grazing McCoy’s lip, their mouths meeting at a warm, soft place in the middle.

Spock runs a little hotter than the average human, and McCoy can feel it, that heat. Spock moves away, though, and he realizes the problem. Sure, there’s heat. But there’s no spark.

“Is this how you treat all your patients, Doctor?” He quirks an eyebrow.

McCoy leans back. “Only the ones that annoy the hell out of me.” He can tell that Spock is largely unaffected by the kiss. Bastard. “Fuck. Forget it. I’m sorry, Spock.”

“Well, I’m a Vulcan.”

“Yeah, I know. I don’t know how the hell Uhura put up with—”

“You misunderstand me,” Spock says, turning to face McCoy. “What I meant was…” He stops speaking, a puzzled expression on his face. Like he’s thinking, working toward a solution. And then he reaches out and takes McCoy’s hand.

It’s like nothing Bones has ever experienced before, and goddammit, he never realized handholding could be so… intimate. Powerful. He’s been elbow-deep in a torpedo before and somehow this is even more intense.

Spock glides his fingers over McCoy’s, their thumbs, knuckles, palms, sliding against each other like some kind of dance. Their fingers tangle and untangle, and then Spock grips his hand so tightly that McCoy forgets who’s supposed to be comforting whom. He feels safe suddenly, no matter what strange planet they’ve crashed on. He feels like he could be drifting into the void of space and Spock’s firm hand on his would anchor him no matter what.

It takes him a second to realize that Spock is smiling.

When they finally break apart, McCoy feels like he’s gotten the wind knocked out of him— in the best possible way. Spock looks a lot more relaxed.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Spock says, and though his face betrays nothing, Bones can hear the smirk in his voice. “I feel much better. Though— wouldn’t this be considered a breach of your Hippocratic oath?”

“Fuck you, Spock.”

“Well, that also raises endorphins.”  

Professor Digory Kirke, Lord of Narnia

He’s afraid.

He’s bored and angry and grieved, missing his father, worried about his mother, confused and hurting and lonely all at once—desperate for friendship and family and connection.  He’s stubborn and curious, and it is not hard to believe the impossible, but it is a challenge to predict the consequences for his decisions.

(Disobedience leads to pain, he finds, and even the most noble of intentions do not justify wrongful actions.)

But the lion (who sings this empty world into glorious majesty) looks him in the eyes and provides a safeguard to his folly, sends him on his way with a miracle anyways, and he never stops wondering, until the day when four children come to him heartbreak and confusion and wonder in their eyes, and he knows.

He watches the stars fall as his beautiful, wonderful world collapses into eternal oblivion, and he is now the witness of its creation and destruction, the bookends of history, and all he can do is bow before the Lion, and think, what a precious honor.

It does not occur to him to be afraid.

King Peter the Magnificent || Queen Susan the Gentle || King Edmund the Just || Queen Lucy the Valiant || Aravis Tarkheena || Corin Thunder-Fist || Crown Prince Cor of Archenland || Jill Pole || Eustace Scrubb || Polly Plummer